Un-anchored from Italy, after a month. I'm in Berlin now, Istanbul on Tuesday, London on the 31, then back toward the U.S. early September.  If any one is in these places at these times, let me know.

(Roman letters will continue, as Rome is now standing in as a set of thoughts and notes of things to be written, things that would have been written but were not because I have been busy looking and meeting and eating and talking and swimming and watching and being on boats and feeling like a boat, and writing is something that is none of these things.)

The stomach, rumbling roughly below the unwelcome bouquet

Cover for the course I'm teaching this fall with Marsh and Erik.   Gut flowers are sprouting, and we awake.  

(For any around Santa Cruz this fall, expect a glut of screenings beyond the class as such.  The Hammer films - the main thing to be talked about -  are consistently weirder, sadder, nastier, funnier, and more like mouthfuls of cold knives than I ever expected.  As such, they're far more important and compelling than they have any right to be.  Come join.)

Un-dimensional man


Meant to link to this a while back: in the most recent Film Quarterly, a piece I wrote on Marco Ferreri's Dillinger is Dead (which is a terribly good movie) and more generally on flatness, fucking around in a cluttered bourgeois house, and what happens when the sun sets red and nothing changes.  It's not up online, but it's a killer issue, with Joshua declaring the new cinematic world order, Nina taking on Vertov, Rob's necessary Editor's Notebook intro, and a White Ribbon double-header.  Order.

Tracks dusted white like salt and snow, and when you turn around, the building is busted and hollow




This is what is seen if you pivot 180 degrees just past the tunnel that runs beneath Termini.